We could use this new forum to start a NB soap

Now that we can start a new topic and sub into it without cluttering up the rest of the board, we could have topics for various collaborative writing efforts, eg. a soap or an ongoing story or a sitcom idea. Many years ago, before the internet but in the days of JANET and green screens, I was part of a group who subbed to an ongoing tale that was under a topic a fledgeling chat room / blog, and that worked fairly well so long as nobody decided to kill off all the characters in a post. Any takers?

There'd be all the usual wanna be star tantrums - "His part is bigger than my part" - and we'd all luvie it up in here but it'd be handbags at Dawn behind the canteen.
Bagsy be a very fick teenager at NB High: the only way I'll get given any lines at all.

Standing in for the Organisers. Ma chère Tante has asked to join in and no-one has replied. I propose that the setup to Act one, Scene One be prepared by Mr Chigley's venerated and elderly relative along the following lines:

3 of the above characters, in a setting of the lady's choice, preparing to embark on the introductory elements of the drama, the plan of which is the action of a single day, though not necessarily recounted in chronological order.

Is the proposal agreed? You have 30 minutes in which to rescind this proposal, otherwise Mr Chigley's esteemed female relative will begin the Story > [drumroll]

name of soap: How about "Strephon", which could give an "in" to parliamentary intrigues via the Duchess. Strephon was also half-fairy, according to G&S. The character himself should not appear, but should remain alluded to and talked about both before and after his yet to be explained early and tragic demise, and its ramifications within the horseracing community...

(Blake wasn't seen after the 1st series of Blake's 7 and Taggart hasn't been in the series that bears his name for yonks.)

Strephon also sounds like a cross between a sex toy and a sore throat. Make a link if you wish.

It's all going to be far too much hard work without an occasional pint, and so to the above dramatis personae it would be wise to add:
Gemma, the publican's young daughter and her mother Mrs Lonnie Fitch

Onlookers and bystanders, as required; Chorus, either garishly outfitted or veiled; Mr Wolfgang von Strefanovotch, aka Strephon (Wolfie to his near and dear).

A word or two about production values: This is not low-budget, hand-held, wobbly murky experimental rubbish. If we conjure up a crowd of 12th Century Freedom Fighters swarming the moors, that's what we want to see on the set on the day. None of your virtual crowd patching. However, our production designer will soon be checking in and will give a full and fair description of the location, feel, and likely costing per minute. Right?

The scene: Wretchedson's race course. Even on a bright summer's day, it would be clear that the course had seen better days - and those some time ago. But this is no summer's day. Dark clouds are building on the horizon and old betting slips scurry in the freshening wind. A storm is brewing. A man stands in the dilapidated grandstand, looking out over the course. He is clearly troubled. This is Ralph Wretchedson.
Wretchedson, talking to himself:
What to do? What am I to do? Oh mother, I've failed you. I said I'd keep this going, I said I'd make you proud, I said I'd keep the staff but I can't even keep my own wife. Why did she have to go? Am I such a bad husband? After tomorrow there's nothing. I must think of some way to save the race course. If only Pauline were here, she'd know what to do.
[Enter Dobbs, an injured ex-jockey]
Hello Dobbs.
Mornin' sir, is everything all right?
Oh yes, quite alright thank you Dobbs. I was just thinking how this place used to be.
Ah, yes sir. The roar of the crowd, the hammering of hooves on firm ground, the fillies in their pretty dresses,no doubt with stockings and suspenders underneath, the..
Yes, indeed Dobbs, those were the days. Is everything ready for tomorrow?
Yes, sir, I'm just putting the final touches to the bunting. I just hope the weather holds.
Good, good, then I won't keep you. Oh, and Dobbs?
Yes sir?
Nnothing.
Right ho sir.
[Scene 2]
Meanwhile, in London, Pauline Wretchedson, estranged wife of Ralph, leaves a theatre by the stage door, clutching a bouquet of flowers.She is flushed with success. She meets 'Mimsy', the Duchess of Argyll, travelling companion.

Mimsy: More flowers I see!
Oh yes, Mimsy, Mr Astchap has been to every matinee performance this week. And every time he brings flowers. I rather think he likes me.
Well, you have a fine contralto voice Pauline, and you can't go wrong with Iolanthe.
Oh, Mimsy, you are silly some times. I mean that I think he likes ME. You know, I don't think I've ever been happier. I shall never want to leave London,never.

Scene 3.
Back at the race course, something attracts Ralph Wretchedson's attention. He raises his binoculars. There, in the distance at the edge of Mattock's Leap, a figure stands, also with binoculars, looking straight at Ralph. Ralph shivers, wraps his Barbour around him, adjusts his racing trilby and walks off.

On a windswept moor, a place where heathens fear to tread, two cars meet.
They stop in the middle of the road.
Headlights on.
Out of the DeLorean steps Mr. Van der Veldt, mid 40's dresses smart but casual, a tall healthy looking man, though walks with a cane.
The driver of the red Astra is Mrs. Lonnie Fitch, approaching 50, dressed to kill.

Van: Are we ready to go ahead

Lonnie: It's been four years, don't I get a hello.

Van: Getting friendly is what caused the problems before,
we only do business well.

Lonnie: Maybe, I bought the land, we drill here.

Van: Clitheroe will be bigger than Dallas.

Lonnie: Maybe. However we have a meeting with the
council planning committe tomorrow.
Mining and minerals sub-group
M/s Fisher, the chair cannot be bought.

[It's about time we had titles and credits rolling. Here's the Title Scene for The Long Shot. The shoot-time will rival Altman's setup for The Player.]

Twilight desolate cityscape, Roman backalleys, DOLLY OUT :: washing on lines and householders at their windows [CU, DOLLY UP]
FAT LADY (hanging bloomers on the first-floor washing line) : Voi che sapete....etc.
[TRAVELING to next 1st floor window] FATTER LADY: I told him, Angelo, I said, I told him don't go, Angelo. I told Angleo, don't go and don't take the rent money, Angelo, and he did n he went and he took the rent money, but I said to him, Angelo, I said and I told him: Angelo.....

[voice fadeout as DOLLY OUT, TRAVELLING,

VIS: bucket of water out the window, camera follows as it hits the pavement at:

STREET LEVEL]Camera follows a fleeting Vespa - maybe it's Angelo, stops to let a leggy cutie on board [that's your 6 min thrill, right there: legs and heels and vroom-vroom] - then view switches and picks up the trail of a large black van as it reaches the autostrada feeder road (we'll get co-production)and (no! not cut yet, but helicopter view of Van as it finds it's way to an open field behind the rolling credits, across the field to a dilapidated barn. [Scream OFF: that's the Grip. We just lost the grip. We'll have to dub sound in the lab...too bad.]

Out of the shadows leap two skinny ninja-like knaves who open the door to the van.

CAMERA FOLLOWS :: [No! no cut! Not yet! Not yet!]and the door of the van opens to reveal:

A horse gussied up in his NewsBiscuit blanket, stepping down the ramp.